The Fellowship of the Strings
by WickedRocksSoMuch
Summary: In light of the corruption of the evil Mordorchestra, the fateful decision was made. The One Ring Championship had to be won by some other strings ensemble. Frodo and his eight companions were to set forth on a long and dangerous journey to get along with each other. This was not going to be easy.
1. The Cool Studio of Elrond

The coast of New Zealand is rugged, haunting, beautiful, and houses a bird that (for whatever reason) someone decided to name a fruit after. It is also the home of the prestigious Middle Earth Philharmonic; the most elite orchestra in the world.

Every year, the MEP (or 'pretentious jerk' as their more critical opposition liked to call them) held a competition known as The One Ring Championship with the winning orchestra playing as the MEP's opening act for the next year. And every year the dreaded Mordorchestra would win.

The Mordorchestra was widely disliked, but also widely feared for their renowned use of foul play to achieve their ends.

For many years, the Mordorchestra remained undefeated. Then there came another ensemble; a fellowship of treble, tenor and bass clef that would finally put an end to the corruption of the One Ring Championship.

Ah, crap. Getting ahead of the story.

Our story actually begins quite a distance from the MEP, in a hole (in the wall apartment) where lived the young Frodo Baggins.

Frodo and his roommate, Sam Gamgee, often found themselves regretting their chosen profession. Strings playing, while artistically wholesome, was unfortunately not an altogether successful career. The two had been auditioning for local orchestras for some time and so far they remained jobless.

Jobless, that is, until Gandalf T. Grey himself walked into their little apartment and offered them both a position in his new ensemble.

Gandalf Theodore Grey, esteemed professor at the Istari School of Music, and long-time friend of Frodo's uncle Bilbo Baggins, was without a doubt one of the most gifted conductors in New Zealand. Obviously, Sam and Frodo accepted.

...

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Mister Frodo?"

The question, asked by Sam, came in response to the sight of the building where their first rehearsal was to take place. Gandalf, it seemed, had managed to talk the famous agent Elrond Halfelven into letting him use Rivendell studios.

"Come on, Sam. We'll be late," said Frodo, tugging at his friend's arm. Reluctantly, Sam trailed after Frodo.

Once inside, even Frodo had to stop and take in his surroundings. Truly, the lobby of Rivendell was a masterpiece. With it's vaulted ceilings, intricate wall hangings and carved wooden floor, it could make even the most hardened critic of the arts weep.

Coming back to the present, Frodo took Sam's hand again and pulled him over to the sign with Gandalf's name on it. He glanced into the unprepossessing room and, shrugging, entered.

There were six people already inside. Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took Frodo already knew from his hometown, Hobbiton (weird name, but a nice place). The rest were strangers. A tall, poised man with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail was currently tuning his violin. A scruffy, redheaded fellow was rosining his bow. A broad-shouldered violist was arguing with a, frankly, intimidating looking guy about something or other. Not a particularly comprehensive group, Frodo had to admit, but it could've been worse.

Before too long, Gandalf arrived and handed out the piece they would be playing.

Generally, when a group has been together a while, there is a pause before the beginning of any song. The metaphorical long, dark tea time of the soul takes hold and there is a kind of breath and retrospection within oneself that defines and shapes any musician.

If the group has just met, that so doesn't happen.

Not even close.

Not even a teeny tiny bit.

In this instance, Frodo was wondering if he'd left the stove on. Sam knew he'd turned the stove off and was wondering if Mister Frodo was concerned about said stove. The redheaded cellist, named Gimli, was wondering how Blondie, known as Legolas, had such luscious hair. He also wanted his number, but he wasn't going to admit that to himself. Legolas, for his part, was wondering why the grumpy looking (and admittedly quite handsome) cellist was glaring at him so intensely. Aragorn, the intimidating fellow, was trying to think of what to wear for his date that evening. Boromir (big shoulder guy) was actively trying and failing to concentrate.

Merry and Pippin were drawing dicks on their sheet music.

So when the opening notes began, they were lovely of course (one does not simply make it into an orchestra conducted by Gandalf T. Grey without some measure of ability) but sadly lacking in anything else. Bluntly put, the music was bereft of, well, musicality. Naturally, he called for a halt. With the grandfatherly gaze for which he was known, he looked down at his new recruits and sighed inwardly.

'I need them to bond,' Gandalf thought to himself, 'I also need to clean the kitchen. I wonder if I'll need to go grocery shopping later...'

Alright, so maybe the players weren't the only scatterbrained people in the room.

Concentration problems aside, Gandalf brought up a good point. How was his ensemble to work as an ensemble if there wasn't that, er, ensemble-y feeling?

"Put down your instruments," said Gandalf, with infinite majesty and calm. The group complied. Briskly, Gandalf motioned for them to join him at the opposite end of the room. Hesitantly, they again complied. Once everyone had joined him, Gandalf proposed his decided course of action.

"Since," he said, "you are mostly unfamiliar with one another, we shall make the best of things and get to know each other."

Trust falls, it seemed, were the first order of business. Mindful of varying sizes, it was generally agreed that neither Sam, Frodo, Merry and Pippin should be paired with anyone but themselves. Naturally, this left Legolas with Gimli and an extremely disgruntled Aragorn and Boromir together. The latter usually got on quite well but were especially miffed with each other that particular day.

The exercise, unfortunately, was one in futility.

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO FALL, NOT BLOODY WELL FLOAT DOWN," bellowed the much less graceful Gimli at his elegant partner.

"Well, it's hardly my fault that you fall like a brick," Legolas snapped.

Next to them, Boromir and Aragorn had many a bruise from where the other had spitefully missed catching them. From his current position on the ground Boromir yelled something at Aragorn about lawsuits and rightful ownership. In return, Aragorn aimed a nice, sharp kick to his ribs.

The shorter members of the orchestra had long since stopped falling into one another's arms in favour of watching the antics of the others. Gandalf, it seemed, was becoming more and more amused.

There was a sudden silence. Those arguing suddenly remembered their manners and separated from each other. Shamefacedly, they got up and brushed dirt (both real and imagined) from their clothes.

"Now," Gandalf chuckled, "are you quite ready to continue?"

Thus was the Fellowship of the Strings formed. It's mission: defeat the evil Mordorchestra and win the One Ring Championship for the good of the world.

"WHY IS YOUR HAIR SO DAMN STRAIGHT?"

It was going to be a long process.

Author's Note: This is simultaneously my first Lord of the Rings fan fiction and my first "serious" story that I've attempted in Chuck only knows how long. Please bear with me.


	2. I'm His Gardener

Author's Note: Sam's open adoration of Frodo is the cutest thing ever.

There is nothing quite so frightening as a musician bereft of coffee.

Fortunately for the productivity of Mr. Frodo Baggins, the exception to this rule was Samwise Gamgee.

Unfortunately for the chipper Sam, Frodo Baggins was the embodiment of the rule. If rules had bodies. Which they don't.

"Mister Frodo do please get up!" Sam said (he had the endearing habit of calling his best friend 'Mister' despite Frodo's objections). The response was a muffled groan that indicated that while Frodo was still amongst the living, he had no desire to join them. Only slightly put out, Sam hummed a jaunty tune under his breath (so as not to bother Mister Frodo) and began to prepare for his day.

First, coffee. Mister Frodo took his with two sugars, one milk. Second, breakfast. In this case, a ham sandwich. Third, water his beloved plants. Fourth, attempt to wake the dragon- er, Mister Frodo again.

"Mister Frodo? I have coffee," murmured Sam.

"You should have let me sleeeeeeeep," Frodo groaned.

"Stop quoting Mister Bilbo's book,"

Frodo grinned sleepily and motioned for Sam to hand over the coffee. Sam complied and sat down on the edge of the bed with his sandwich and the two sat in companionable silence for a few minutes.

Then Frodo's coffee ran out. As if a switch in his brain had been turned off, he slumped back into bed and pulled his pillow over his face, muttering something about 'never getting up again'. Once, Sam might've panicked. Now, he had had enough experience to know that would rouse his slumbering companion was more caffeine. Rising, Sam made his way back to the kitchen.

"MISTER FRODO YOU CAN HAVE THE REST OF THE COFFEE IF YOU ARE UP IN FIVE MINUTES,"

If dressing was a national sport, Frodo would have placed first. In record time he was dressed and waiting expectantly, like a puppy in fact, for the promised coffee. Sam handed Frodo the pot, knowing full well that Mister Frodo would just drink from it anyways.

"We need to be at rehearsal in forty minutes," Sam reminded his friend. When no response came from Frodo, Sam repeated himself, albeit at a slightly louder volume.

"Yeah, we'll get there eventually," said Frodo.

Thirty-nine minutes, torrential rain, and an extremely awkward bus ride later Sam and Frodo arrived disgruntled and out of breath at the impossibly cool Rivendell studios. Just as the pair arrived at the huge double doors, an intimidating black car drove past and splashed them from head to dripping-wet toes. Frodo ran after the car, shouting profanities at it.

"Mister Frodo, it's alright!" Sam shouted. He grabbed Frodo by the back of his coat and struggled to drag him back to the studio. Reluctantly, Frodo relented and the two trudged back and went inside. They were now three minutes late.

"Mr. Baggins and Mr. Gamgee. How kind of you to join us," said Gandalf. 'Us' it turned out was Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli. The two seemed less than pleased to have been trapped in a room together. It seemed that the weather had prevented the others from arriving in a timely fashion as well. Even as Gandalf turned back, smiling, to look at his score, a bedraggled Aragorn and Boromir entered the room.

"Sorry," muttered Aragorn. He had rings around his eyes and looked more than a little hungover. Sam guessed that the date he had mentioned had gone significantly better than expected. Not that he would ever say anything to that affect, far too forward for his tastes thank you very much.

Not long after that Merry and Pippin arrived as well and the Fellowship began to warm up.

Now, it should be here stated that Gandalf T. Grey was known for being a bit eccentric. This is being pointed out, not because he is untalented, but because he is, bluntly, odd. This is why the practice piece ended up being less classical than expected. This caused a good deal of confusion amongst the players (most especially Sam, who had a penchant for broadway) but they had no choice but to go along with it.

And that, dear friends, is how the Fellowship of the Strings ended up playing Radioactive by Imagine Dragons. As aforementioned, Gandalf was a pretty cool dude. The warm up was followed by a lovely polka that appeased Sam's wounded sensibilities and to finish they pulled out one of the pieces they hoped to enter in the One Ring Championship: a lovely Mozart operetta that had Sam close to tears by the end of it. His viola was evidently ill-pleased with it's dousing of water earlier and was refusing to cooperate. Sam only hoped Mister Frodo wasn't having the same difficulties.

When the rehearsal was finally over, the Fellowship immediately began bickering. Legolas and Gimli could be heard from the cello section arguing over the merits of different bowings. Legolas was in favour of a smoother, more elegant bow stroke, whilst Gimli, unsurprisingly, supported a more violent attack. Boromir and Aragorn were still talking about a will of some sort. Or a Will? Maybe they had a mutual friend, who knows.

Merry and Pippin were wadding up pieces of paper and chucking them at Frodo's unsuspecting head.

"You leave Mister Frodo alone," Sam cried indignantly at the pair. Pippin and Merry turned to one another in unison before turning back to Sam and sticking out their tongues at him.

'Rude,' thought Sam as he helped Mister Frodo pack up his things. As they turned to go, Gandalf motioned for him to come over.

"Yes, Mister Gandalf?" he said. The elderly conductor smiled down at him and knelt so as to be the same height.

"Samwise," he said, "are you and dear Frodo particularly forgetful concerning umbrellas, or did something...untoward happen to you this morning?"

"Well, a big nasty car splashed us on the way here and got Mister Frodo right riled. Oughtn't have been driving that fast in this weather, I say," Sam said. Gandalf grew serious.

"Was it a black car, by any chance?"

Sam was astonished. How had Mister Gandalf known that. Not knowing what to say, he nodded his head. Gandalf sighed sadly and stood again.

"Look after him, Samwise," he said, "I am very much afraid that something terribly bad is going to happen,"

And that did not make Sam feel better one bit.


	3. Blondie

Author's Note: Captain! There be a ship hard a starboard! (I know I promised to update yesterday, but I was a little emotionally distraught. My apologies.)

The unfortunately named Legolas Greenleaf was what might be referred to as a 'health nut'. Not within his hearing of course (the guy could lift a sack of gluten-free flour with little to no difficulty) but the fact remained that he was pretty darn healthy. Almost too healthy. So, when Gandalf told the Fellowship of the Strings to go out for a picnic, things took a, uh, interesting turn.

...

Legolas had just finished packing up his cello and was preparing to leave when he heard Gandalf clear his throat. He and his fellow musicians turned around and looked expectantly (if a touch frightenedly) at Gandalf who was smiling his patented 'I have a simply wonderful idea' smile.

Legolas felt his heart drop down to the bottoms of his fabulous brown boots. Figuratively. Hearts don't actually drop. The last time Gandalf had smiled that way, they'd all spent an evening polkaing. Legolas shuddered involuntarily at the memory.

"Does anyone know how to cook?" Gandalf asked.

Ever polite, Legolas gave the others a chance to raise their hand. In this instance, patience was not a virtue. For what to his wondering eyes should appear, but Gimli raising his hand. Legolas felt his stomach tingle a little. Weird. He wondered if he'd eaten something that didn't agree with him. He then did something he would undoubtedly regret later.

Legolas raised his hand.

...

"NO, WE ARE NOT HAVING STEAK AT A PICNIC," yelled Legolas from behind the wall of leafy greens he had built on the left side of Gandalf's kitchen.

"BETTER THAN YOUR PANSY SALAD," Gimli retorted from his Fortress of Meatitude, located in the scenic right side of the kitchen.

"THEY ARE PARSNIPS, THANK YOU VERY MUCH," Legolas bellowed, hurling the offending vegetable at his fellow cellist's face, resolutely ignoring how attractive said face was.

"I DIDN'T MEAN THEY WERE PANSIES. I MEANT THE WHOLE DAMN THING IS PANSYISH," Gimli said, throwing a potato across the room.

At that moment Gandalf entered, absent-mindedly ducking to avoid the culinary onslaught.

"How goes it?" he asked of the room in general as he leafed through a pamphlet about beard upkeep. As one, Legolas and Gimli began yelling at each other about the merits of various foods.

"Have you considered," Gandalf said calmly over the noise, "making sandwiches?"

Legolas and Gimli were silent. No, the thought had obviously not occurred to them. Pfft, who makes sandwiches for a picnic.

Oh, right.

_Everyone makes sandwiches for a picnic_.

"That would be far easier," Legolas admitted. Gimli grunted something which may've been a yes, but sounded much closer to 'blurgh'. Not a naturally eloquent man, was Gimli.

Before long, and without too much argument, Legolas and Gimli had set up a sandwich making station. Legolas furiously concentrated on chopping up veggies and ignoring his proximity to the shorter man.

It was an embarrassing few hours.

...

Not for the first time, Legolas wondered why he had bothered volunteering to help prepare the food for what would, in all likelihood, be a travesty of a picnic.

'You did it for the vegetarian option,' he lied to himself. If he was being perfectly honest, he had a crush the size of Northern Ontario on his fellow cellist. For those unaware, Northern Ontario is eighty billion kilometres long (okay, maybe less, but it's still fairly large).

Just as Legolas was going through this inner turmoil, the other musicians began to arrive, bracing themselves for what would assuredly be a collection of food of questionable origins. They were pleasantly surprised to find that the food was not only edible, but quite tasty.

Following that, the group of professional, adult musicians played an exceedingly mature game of frisbee. For those unfamiliar with this grown-up version of the game, picture regular frisbee and then add a goodly amount of cursing. Cursing that would make truckers and sailors blush a delicate pink.

As he ran after the round piece of plastic, Legolas prayed that Gandalf would eventually run out of bonding activities. He was so concentrated on this thought, that he completely forgot about his surroundings. Thus, Legolas ended up running into Gimli at full speed, knocking them both to the ground.

Awkward.

The two men stared at each other for a solid five seconds before Legolas remembered their compromising position and leapt up gracefully. He helped up Gimli (who now resembled nothing so much as a tomato) and the two awkwardly stood there.

"Sorry about that," said Legolas.

"It's cool," said Gimli.

"Oh...cool," Legolas murmured. He turned to go.

"Hey, uh, can I have your phone number? You know, just in case we need to rehearse or something," Gimli asked quickly.

Legolas blinked owlishly.

"Sure," he said.

…

Sitting in the quiet of his apartment, Legolas had a lovely dinner of Lembas Bread™ and vegetable stir fry. His face was a mask of calm as he munched away at what Gimli would've called 'rabbit food'.

It was not until later that evening that the most mature, most graceful, most adult member of the Fellowship allowed himself to dissolve into a fit of squealing and giggling. It was all very, uh, graceful.


	4. Cereal Killer

Author's Note: Let's all sing the 'I haven't updated in forever and I suck I'm so sorry' song. It has a very rousing chorus to the tune of 'I'll make this one longer to make up for it'.

Pippin Took was a cereal killer. Cheerios, Fruit Loops, Frosted Flakes, you name it, he ate it. While this provided him with a good deal of grain, it was less than beneficial to his morning productivity.

That was how he ended up in his pajamas at three in the afternoon, bowl in one hand and spoon in the other. As the television blasted out the sounds of _New Zealand's Next Top Bottle_ (a game show pitting water battle companies against one another) Pippin considered the bonuses of being a musician. First and foremost, rehearsal could be canceled at a moments notice. In this case, Gandalf and most of the orchestra (Pippin, thankfully, not included) had contracted the flu that was going around and everyone, therefore, had been allowed to stay home.

The first thing on Pippin's list had been to stay in bed for several hours longer than strictly necessary. The second thing on his list had been to rip up the list and settle in for a few hours of bad reality television and snacking. Not that he didn't watch intellectual television. On the contrary, he also enjoyed movies about mission/quest/things (or as his cousin Merry called them, 'action/adventure films').

It was around five when Pippin remembered that he had meant to go check on Merry (who conveniently lived in the apartment across the street). Tucking myriad medicinal ingredients under his arm, he made his way across the harrowingly long distance (Pippin had a decidedly melodramatic view of life. Or lazy. Whichever you prefer).

As our hero intrepidly made his way across the street, he failed to notice the suspiciously ominous black car lurking across the street. A bright lad, but less observant than might be hoped. The car, however, noticed Pippin.

Duh, duh, duhhhhhh.

At any rate, Pippin had made it inside and was attempting to charm the toad-like receptionist into letting him upstairs. Merry would've let him up, but he was apparently unable to remove himself from the couch.

Toad Lady was being uncooperative. Pippin began to get desperate.

"Pleaaaase?" he whined, all pretense of charm abandoned. Toad Lady peered over the rims of her glasses before shrugging.

"Whatever," she croaked. Pippin jumped up and down in his excitement. Dashing to the elevator, he accidentally ran into the fellow leaving it.

"Sorry," Pippin called over his shoulder, to the sounds of his victim's increasingly inventive invective. The doors closed abruptly and Pippin hummed happily to himself, all thought of angry tenants suddenly forgotten. He drummed idly on the hastily assembled care package he was carrying.

After what seemed an eternity to someone of Pippin's short attention span, the elevator reached Merry's floor with a self-satisfied _ding_. Elevator doors, as every fan of Douglas Adams knows, are terrifically smug beings not worth wasting time on. Pippin, due to his preference for comic books, had never read _The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy_ but he still had a vague dislike of elevators.

Pippin glanced about the hallway and marched along to Merry's door. He knocked in much the same way as he spoke; loudly and with a distinctive accent. If knocking had accents, which it doesn't. You know what, forget the metaphor.

Pippin knocked on Merry's door.

"You have a key, Pip," said a muffled voice from within the apartment. At least, that's what it was meant to say. It came out as more of a 'mmlhdaioerfeyrrweo,' which is unfortunatley not what Merry was going for. Fortunately for Merry, Pippin had by this time remembered that he did, in fact, possess a key to the apartment. Handy, that. Pippin wondered why his cousin hadn't thought to mention it.

Pippin cheerfully skipped into the apartment but was brought up short by the sight of his cousin. Yowza, was Merry ever sick. Pippin's bright smile softened.

"Are you here to cheer me up?" Merry asked.

"No Merry," said Pippin, "I'm going to look after you,"

Merry looked up at his cousin for a minute. Then, he laughed. Most inelegantly.

Pippin chose to ignore his cousin's sudden mirth. No doubt Merry's mind had been addled by his illness, he decided. Then, like the industrious little fellow he (almost) was, he set about making the Ultimate Tookish Wellness Foody Thingy, handed down from generation to generation (with slight name variations as it went). Pippin began to cook, reading the instructions to himself.

"Step One: Cereal. Pour in two or three cereals of the sick person's choosing into a large bowl. Add milk (regular, chocolate, strawberry, whatever floats your boat). Chocolate, Merry? Alright. Step Two: Protein. The Bacon and Peanut Butter sandwich, most revered of all Tookish food items, yada yada yada. Toast a bagel, spread peanut butter over said bagel (both sides) and then put a lovely helping of bacon on top. Delicioso. Step Three: More protein. Two words for you; Bacon Waffles. Make the waffle mix, put in bacon bits (real bacon, not that store bought crap you get in the little packages) and then make the waffles. Awesome." Pippin hummed happily to himself.

"Pip, I can't eat all of that," Merry protested.

"You can and you will,"

It was in the midst of this idyllic scene that the true danger of the aforementioned ominous car was revealed. As Merry turned on the news channel (News Zealand™) these terrible words were announced to the world:

"_Frodo Baggins, heir to the famous writer Bilbo Baggins, was found earlier this afternoon in the back of an alley. It appears that he had been stabbed. Baggins is currently in hospital, with no word as to when he will be released."_

Reeling from the news of their friend's attack, Merry and Pippin glanced at one another and quickly prepared to go to the hospital.

Pippin had a moment of clarity, suddenly remembering the black van from earlier. A vague feeling of unease settled in the pit of his stomach and he began to have an inkling of the trouble the Fellowship might be in.

The Mordorchestra had struck, and not for the last time.

Author's Note: Friendly reminder that if you don't ship one of my ships, it's okay not to read this. Have a lovely day, all of you!


	5. Yolo Swaggins

Author's Note: Procrastination *jazz hands*

When one has suffered a near-death experience, it is customary for one to reflect on one's life, to ponder the deeper mysteries of the universe and to confront one's inner demons.

Such was not the case with young Frodo Baggins.

'Ouch,' was what he thought, in fact, followed by, 'yowzah, that is painful.' Not an overwhelmingly philosophical response to his current predicament, but he had just been stabbed; some allowances can be made for his lack of witty repartee. A good deal of allowances, actually.

Frodo lifted himself up to look around the room. Or rather, he tried to lift himself up. The actual movement was rather closer to a fish removed from the ocean. Not pretty. Giving up on the exercise, he collapsed back on the bed.

"Good, you're awake," said a mysterious (and fairly Gandalf-ish) voice.

"Gandalf!" said Frodo, for it was he.

"Indeed," said Gandalf (perhaps a little more melodramatically than was strictly necessary), "it is I," and as he said that, a small bundle of energy burst forth from the hallway and ran straight to Frodo's side. This was, of course, Sam, who promptly grabbed hold of Frodo's hand as if he had almost died. Oh wait.

"Mister Frodo!" Sam exclaimed.

"Sam has scarcely left your side," said Gandalf. Again with the melodramatics.

Sam, by this point, rather resembled a puppy. He was jumping up and down. Yeesh.

Now, all of this was secondary to the fact that there had been an attempt on Frodo's life. 'Why?' you might perhaps ask, 'Frodo's just an adorable violin player, why would anyone stab him?' to which there is but one answer, dear reader:

_The Mordorchestra_.

Duh duh duuuuhhhhhhhh.

Yes, the dreaded Mordorchestra had arranged for the attack of dear Frodo. No police action could be taken due to the influence of some of its higher-ranking members. All of this was revealed to Frodo during the course of a particularly long, boring meeting which you really don't want to hear the details of. Suffice to say, there was a lot of talking, some consulting, and a good deal of stale cookies. Best to ignore it and skip right to the exciting bit.

"I WILL WIN THE ONE RING CHAMPIONSHIP," bellowed Frodo from his hospital bed, drowning out the bickering voices of his comrades. All of the assembled orchestra members turned to look at the little fellow currently lying on the bed.

"Though I might need some help," said Frodo feebly, all of his former energy sapped. Gandalf nodded slowly and indicated that they would, indeed, assist Frodo in his endeavour.

"We will have a meeting in a month's time," he said (again, melodramatic).

…

'Ah, crap,' thought Frodo to himself as he looked through the music they would be playing for the Championship. He hadn't quite realized the ramifications of his brave (if ill-considered) decision to win the Championship, unwittingly promoting himself to first violin in the process. What he hadn't realized at the time was that leading a section of strong-willed men whilst playing the most difficult of the musical parts was something akin to controlling horses made of water. Not that those exist.

On the bright side, Gandalf had apparently decided that bonding exercises were no longer necessary. Stabbing can do that to a group. Speaking of, Frodo was finding it excessively difficult to play; whenever he moved his bow along the string (which was very, _very_ often) he felt a sharp pain in his side where the Mordorchestra member had slid a blade between his ribs.

Frodo found himself dozing off to the soothing sounds of Gandalf's voice. He flashed back suddenly to the ambulance ride.

_A tall woman stood over him, holding something against his side. There was an ethereal light flowing from behind her dark hair. Her words were faint and Frodo struggled to hear what she was saying-_

"Mr. Baggins, if you could join the land of the living, please," Gandalf said, abruptly shattering Frodo's reverie. He mumbled an apology and looked back down at his music. As it turned out, the woman in the ambulance was Aragorn's girlfriend, Arwen.

Frodo shook his head to clear it and concentrated on the music in front of him. He could hear Legolas and Gimli arguing from the cello section and found himself listening in on what they were saying. To be fair, they weren't being spectacularly quiet about it.

"...not my fault you can't handle the damn music," came from Legolas.

"I'd hardly call this impossible thing 'music'!" this, from Gimli.

"Well, we wouldn't want you to strain yourself, now would we?" Legolas again.

"I HAVE TINY PINKIES, OKAY."

"Gentlemen!" Gandalf yelled. The two cellists glanced up and then promptly looked back down shamefacedly. Gandalf motioned that the Fellowship should start playing again. Frodo focused back onto what they were doing. The remainder of rehearsal went alright, if a little distractedly. Again, stabbing will do that to you.

…

"Need any company?" said Boromir, leaning over Frodo's shoulder. He and Aragorn were standing behind Frodo, looking rather intimidating. Since the incident, none of the other orchestra members had allowed Frodo to be alone for more than five minutes. It was beginning to wear on his nerves.

"Sure," he said wearily, shouldering his violin case and preparing to leave. Sam ran over to them and, as one, Frodo's unwanted escort fanned out around him, effectively forming a barrier. Frodo rolled his eyes as they left the building. It was getting so that he couldn't even use the bathroom without signing a release form, in triplicate.

This was what he was thinking as the black van swerved the corner quickly, heading directly for them.

Author's Note: You have no idea how frustrating it is to play the cello whilst having midget pinkies. It's like having Frodo get something from the top shelf. Not fun. In other news, I have a thing for having characters enter near-death experiences _juuusssstttt _ as the chapter ends. Sorry.


End file.
